


The past that divides us

by Imnotweirdjustwriting



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotweirdjustwriting/pseuds/Imnotweirdjustwriting
Summary: Your soulmate's name is tattooed onto your wrist





	The past that divides us

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "This is Life" from Bandstand because that's all I care about

Jack couldn’t clearly remember a time without his tattoo. For all he knew it had been there since the day he was born. That happened sometimes, with strong pairs of soulmates. Of course people said the age that the tattoo appeared didn’t matter. A soulmate at four years old is the same as one at 27. Jack was just always secretly happy his had appeared so young.

  
He wasn’t a huge fan of the name it spelled out, though. The day his mother had read it to him stuck with him. He knew she had to have seen it before, but she still smiled sadly at him when she read it.

_   
_ _Andrew_. A simple enough name. Common enough for Jack to meet a few in his life. But it was a boy’s name. His mother knew Jack would have trouble because of it, so she taught him to cover it up. At night he would uncover it and she would read it to him again, teaching Jack to write it like his own name. She taught him to hide it, but she didn’t teach him to be ashamed.

  
She died without ever telling Jack whose name was tattooed onto her wrist. Sometimes Jack thought she didn’t have one. He didn’t like to think about it. At least she had been happy for him.

  
After his mother died Jack was left with no family and shoved into the Refuge. It was harder to keep his wrist covered there. Snyder didn’t trust boys like that. Jack had fought at first, wrenching his wrist back when Snyder grabbed for it. He learned the hard way to just show him.

  
The first time Snyder saw it, he had sneered at Jack. The way he’d practically spit the name, _Andrew_ , like it hurt his mouth to even shape the words. Nothing like the soft way his mother used to say it, like it was a gift. Jack wished he could take the word back for himself, keep it wrapped against his wrist with a scrap of fabric where no one could chew the word up and spit it out like it was disgusting.

  
Snyder had tried to burn the tattoo off. Jack knew of people who tried to do that. He knew how the tattoo reappeared, just as clear and starkly black as before. He wished it wasn’t something he knew personally. The press of the hot iron against his skin, the sizzling and popping sound, the horrific smell of burned flesh that had lingered in Jack’s nose for weeks afterwards. Snyder hadn’t let him cover it up. It had stayed exposed, stinging and burning with the slightest touch. 

  
Jack escaped just a few days later. Pulling himself into the carriage had been agonizing, the burn on his arm screaming in protest. He made it out anyways, curled in the back, cradling his arm. He slept on the street the next three nights, barely resting out of fear of what could happen, the pain from his burn still horrible. 

  
He stumbled upon the Newsboy Lodging House by accident. One of the boys had spotted him as he stumbled by, dizzy with hunger, exhausted and in pain. He’d coaxed Jack inside, helped patch him up. Jack learned his name was Specs, “Because of the glasses”, he’d explained.

  
Jack lied when Specs asked his name. He didn’t want to go back to the Refuge. Specs didn’t doubt him when Jack told him his name was Jack Kelly. It was who he was going to be now.

  
Jack’s arm stopped stinging as Specs tended to the burn. He didn’t ask Jack what had happened. They both knew it had to do with Jack’s soulmate. Jack was grateful Specs didn’t force him to have an awkward conversation.

  
“What is this place for?” Jack asked instead, his eyes wide as he took in the room they were sitting in. It was almost like an office with a rickety looking staircase leading upstairs.

  
“This here is the Manhattan Lodging House. We stay here at night, eat meals, take showers. It’s better than the streets.”

  
“Who is ‘we’?” Jack’s stomach ached at the thought of food.

  
“The newsies. We sell papes to all the rich folks, and anyone else who can afford one really. Tell ya what, Jack. Hows about you join us?”

  
Jack grinned at him. “I think I’d like that.”

  
Jack went out selling with him the next day. He was a natural, making up headlines, guilting mothers, interrupting a kissing couple, any tactic the other newsies used to sell. He made enough to pay for himself, something he was immensely proud of. 

  
He took the bandages off his arm that night. His skin was still tender, warped where it had been burned, but his tattoo was back. Jack touched it lightly, ignoring the pain. He hoped Andrew was doing better than he was. He rewrapped his arm and went to bed, deciding then to keep it covered. 

  
Being a newsboy was good for Jack. In the next few months he learned every newsie’s name and they learned his. Everyone liked Jack. He was talkative, always eager to be included in conversations. They all laughed when he started talking about Santa Fe, how the moon was bigger there, how he was gonna go out there and become a cowboy. Some of the younger kids humored him and played cowboy with him, though they just bullied Jack into chasing them around the room until someone got too tired. 

  
Jack liked it. He liked being Jack Kelly. He liked that no one asked about his tattoo. Quite a few of the other boys had their tattoos covered as well. Jack didn’t think it mattered much anyways. Everyone had a nickname, their real names didn’t matter here. 

  
It was during his fifth month as a newsboy that Jack jerked awake in the middle of the night. He figured it was nothing. After the Refuge he was used to waking up, his throat dry with fear, the nightmares still chasing him into his waking hours. He wasn’t afraid, though. He lay silently, listening. He could hear the other boys, someone (probably Race) snoring loud enough that Jack was surprised anyone was still asleep. Between snores Jack could hear a faint noise. It took him a minute to realize it was knocking.

  
He dropped down from his bunk, tiptoeing to the stairs. They creaked as he crept down them. He reached the bottom without waking anyone up by some miracle. Jack opened the door despite Specs’ warnings not to open the door for strangers.

  
It took Jack a few seconds to realize what he was looking at. There was a boy sprawled on the stairs. Jack thought he might be dead, the way his leg was twisted behind him. He really hoped he wasn't. 

  
He turned and yelled up the stairs. “Specs!” He called. “Race! Henry! Anyone, come here!” 

  
There was a great clamor as his shouts woke the newsies. Specs came running down the sta irs first, barely making it down before a cluster of boys came crashing down the stairs.

  
“What is it, Jack?” Specs asked, his eyes wide. He didn’t have his glasses on.

  
“There’s a boy on the stairs,” Jack explained. He felt oddly detached from the whole situation. He didn’t want the boy to be dead. He didn’t want to be afraid.    
Specs darted to the stairs to look. He knelt down, his fingers pressed to the boy’s throat. “He ain’t dead, I feel a pulse.” Specs said.

  
Jack could hear a few audible exhales. He wasn’t the only one who’d been afraid then.

  
“Help me pick him up." Specs said. "He needs to get in a bed."

  
Jack lunged forward to help along with Race and Albert. They eac h lifted the boy as gently as possible, Jack holding onto the boys arm. He was small and extremely light, unhealthily so. 

  
Jack heard him groan as they lifted him, quietly enough to not catch the attention of the others. Specs held the boy, bridal style, easy now that he wasn't on the floor. Jack held onto his arm, his fingers curled just above where the tattoo would be. It was bleeding. 

  
"Specs," Jack's voice was shaky. "His arm, he's bleeding." 

  
Specs held the boy tighter. "It will be okay, Jack. Let's get him laying down and we can take care of it."

  
The other newsies stumbled back upstairs, clearing a path for Specs. Jack followed him closely, his eyes on the boy. 

  
Specs laid him on the nearest bed. "Move back," he said, shooing the newsies away. 

  
Jack stayed. He crouched next to the bed, his hand on the boy's arm. 

  
"Here, Jack, let me look at it." Specs took the arm gently, turning it to look. The place where his tattoo would be was bloody, haphazardly gouged at. 

  
Specs winced. He produced bandages out of nowhere, carefully applying gauze then wrapping it. 

  
Jack watched him, his hand placed protectively over his own tattoo. He didn't like the idea of someone ruining this boy's tattoo. 

  
"Are you gonna stay up with him?" Specs asked. He looked tired.

  
Jack nodded. "I'll stay up."

  
Specs dragged himself to his feet, yawning. "Tell me if he wakes up. He needs rest, and probably food. But I'm sure he's okay."

  
Jack nodded again. He didn't really know what to say. Specs ruffled his hair and went to bed.

  
Jack pulled a chair next to the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees to regard the boy. 

  
He was pretty. Delicate cheekbones and long lashes. His hair was messy, probably soft if it was washed. He was pretty filthy though. Jack wished he was awake.    
Time crawled. It took a while for everyone to fall back asleep and once they did Jack was left in the silence, broken only by an occasional shuffle of sheets or someone's snore. Jack's eyelids drooped, but he didn't want to leave the boy. 

  
He could pass the time. He'd picked up a few pieces of charcoal with extra money a month ago, keeping them tucked in his pillowcase till he used them. 

  
He retrieved them quickly, holding them as gently as possible to avoid breaking them. He used a stray newspaper to sketch on. It took him a few tries to get used to the feeling of charcoal. It glided over the paper and blended easily, the strokes more fluid than he was used to with graphite. 

  
He started with the basic outline of the boy, focusing on the positive-negative space. Drawing calmed him down. He didn't focus on details, instead using values to fill in the outline. It was less of a drawing, more of a suggestion. The only solid line he used was to define the long lashes. He glanced up to check on the boy. His eyes were open. Jack's breath caught for a moment, they were so pretty. 

  
They regarded each other for a moment. The boy looked a little bit afraid, but he didn't move. 

"You're okay." Jack said on reflex. 

  
The boy blinked at him. "Is this the lodging house?" He asked. His voice was smooth. 

  
Jack nodded. "Yeah, it is. You're safe now." 

  
He didn't think to ask for the boy's name. He wanted to make sure he was okay. "I'm gonna get Specs, he'll make sure you're okay."

  
Jack didn't wait to see his answer, he just went and shook Specs awake. Specs was up quickly, joining Jack back by the bed in an instant. 

  
"Hey, kid, how are you feeling?" Specs asked, his voice soft. 

  
The boy blinked again. He seemed to do that a lot. "I'm tired." 

  
"Okay, we'll let you rest. Can you tell me your name?"

  
"Where's my crutch?" The boy asked, avoiding the question. "For my leg. I need it to stand."

  
Specs cussed softly. "Jack, can you go grab it? It must be outside."

  
Jack leapt to his feet, hurrying down the stairs. He pushed the door open. The crutch was sitting on the ground. Jack didn't know how they'd managed to miss it before. He grabbed it, running back up the stairs. 

  
Specs was sitting in Jack's chair, checking on the boy's arm. He was smiling. 

  
"Here's the crutch."

  
"Thanks, Jack. This is Crutchie."

  
Crutchie smiled at Jack. His mouth was just a little bit too wide. Jack thought his face looked even prettier. He wanted him to smile again. "Specs thought of a nickname for me. Guess I really am ready to be one of you."

  
Jack didn't know where Crutchie had come from, but he clearly knew what he wanted. He knew he was going to be a newsie. Jack wanted to know why. 

  
"Is it okay if I go back to sleep?" Crutchie asked. 

  
Specs nodded. "We'll get you fed at breakfast. Your arm will be fine in a few days. Don't touch it till then. Just try and rest now."

  
Crutchie glanced at his arm. He shifted it, turning his tattoo towards his chest. He looked uncomfortable. 

  
"Specs, we should go to bed. Rest while we can." Jack said. He didn't want Crutchie to deal with them anymore. 

  
Specs picked up on what Jack was hinting at. He stood, pulling Jack with him. "Sleep well," he said to Crutchie. Jack almost expected him to kiss Crutchie's forehead.    
Jack crawled into his bunk, curling up so he could still see Crutchie. He wanted to talk to him more . Maybe tomorrow they could. He fell asleep, forgetting about his drawings completely. 

  
Crutchie let out a long breath after the two boys left. He turned on his side, the pressure on his leg lessening. He could see papers on the floor. He squinted, trying to see it in the dim light of the room. It looked like sketches. He reached, grabbing them, and tucking them neatly under his pillow. He was exhausted now. He closed his eyes, safe to sleep at last. 

  
Jack realized quickly the next morning that Crutchie blended in seamlessly with the newsies. He perked up after breakfast, chattering excitedly with anyone who listened. Jack sat next to him the whole time. 

  
He was interesting. Jack expected Crutchie to slink to the background, aware of his leg and keeping people from seeing him as the weak one. He didn't even try to blend in. He made it clear right away that his leg didn't mean anything. He got around fine and didn't need anyone's pity. 

  
Jack sort of thought people needed to protect themselves from Crutchie. He didn't doubt Crutchie would fight anyone to defend himself, but he also thought Crutchie was a fiercely loyal friend.

  
Maybe he was thinking about it too much. 

  
They spent the day selling together. Jack's techniques and Crutchie's bum leg made the ultimate duo. They split their money that night, laughing and cheering about their success. Jack wanted to make sure Crutchie sold with him forever.

  
He took him to the rooftop. It took some work to get Crutchie up the ladder, but  he wasn't going to give up. Jack never wanted to forget the look on Crutchie's face as he looked out over New York City. The awe and wonder made Jack's heart sing. 

  
"Welcome to my penthouse," he said, his voice too loud in the still air. 

  
Crutchie turned to him, trying to hide a smile. "Thank you for showing me this, Jack. It's beautiful."

  
Jack bumped Crutchie with his shoulder. "Of course. This is where I hang out. This is where we can get away, away from the crowd and noise."   
"I'd like that." Crutchie's voice was quiet. 

  
Jack felt warm. He wanted to stay up here with Crutchie. He fiddled with the fabric tied over his tattoo. It was a painful reminder that this wouldn't last forever. They slept on the rooftop that night, just to try it out. 

  
It's where they slept all summer for the next few years. Jack loved it. The cool breeze, the open air, the view of the city. It was something to look forward to. Waking up to the sun painting the tall buildings gold, going to bed under the stars. All with Crutchie by his side. 

  
They didn't talk about their tattoos. Crutchie kept his covered too. It wasn't a huge topic with the newsies. Some were lucky enough to find each other in the lodging house. Jack still laughed sometimes about the day Romeo realized Specs' real name was Adam. Being around them was practically unbearable since then, they were always together. Jack supposed it was because they felt save in the lodging house. He hoped he could find a safe place eventually. Even though he knew the newsies wouldn't care about his name he left it covered. He didn't need the constant reminder that whatever he had with Crutchie wasn't enough. 

  
He didn't let that stop him. It happened on a whim, one of their summer nights up on the rooftop. The sky had been unusually clear. Crutchie had been telling Jack stories of the constellations, laying so closely next to Jack. 

  
Jack had turned on his side to see Crutchie, and in the dark he could see Crutchie's wide eyes. The space between them had closed, their bodies moving closer until their lips touched. Jack had pulled back, panicked at what he'd done. Crutchie had just dragged him in for another kiss, an unspoken promise that they could do this, regardless of whatever their wrists said. 

  
The nights on the rooftop were full of soft touches, warm kisses, falling asleep too closely for summer but not even caring. Jack loved it. He didn't even think about his tattoo anymore. He didn't need Andrew if he had Crutchie. 

  
It didn't mean Jack wasn't curious. He wanted to know whose name was lucky enough to be on Crutchie's wrist, whose name traced over scars and claimed Crutchie as their own. 

  
Jack asked, but Crutchie refused. It wasn't a very good topic between them. Who really has you? Who do you really love? It was easier to ignore it, to not ask questions. 

  
It was easier to do this. Crutchie's lips were soft against Jack's, a warm reminder of that they had. Crutchie held Jack's face in his hands, his thumbs tracing his cheekbones. 

  
Jack reached for Crutchie's arm, his fingers brushing the fabric tied there. He ached to undo it, to finally look at the name there. 

  
Crutchie pulled away from the kiss, taking his arm with him. "Don't bother," he said, reading Jack's mind. He sounded so sad. "It's not-" he cleared his throat. "It's not you."

  
Jack cringed. "I just want to see. Please, Crutchie."

  
Crutchie closed his eyes. He held his arm out to Jack, turning it so he could untie the fabric. 

  
Jack did so carefully, his other hand holding Crutchie's arm steady. He could feel him trembling. It came undone easily, slipping between Jack's fingers to the ground. He kept his thumb pressed over Crutchie's tattoo, hesitant to look. He could feel the slight scarring there, a sudden and vivid remember of the first time Jack had seen him. He'd been so frail, quiet and demure. Just the beginning of the snarky spitfire Jack knew today.  

  
Crutchie was acting sort of like that boy now. He looked scared. "Just look," he whispered. 

  
Jack moved his thumb finally. He inhaled sharply. "Crutchie," he said, his voice incredibly soft. "What's your real name?"

  
"What? Jack, I'm not telling you that." They both preferred to forget their pasts. 

  
Jack gripped tight to Crutchie's wrist. "Please. What is it?"

  
"I didn't want to tell people. I didn't want to go back home." Crutchie turned his face away. "My name's Andrew."

  
Jack let out a noise that was almost a sob. "You know, my name isn't Jack Kelly."

  
Crutchie looked up at Jack. His eyes were intense. "What do you mean?"

  
"It's Sullivan." Jack moved his thumb across Crutchie's tattoo again, looking him in his eyes. "Francis Sullivan."

  
Crutchie inhaled sharply. He pulled his arm out of Jack's grasp. "Give me your arm."

  
Jack did quickly. Crutchie practically tore the fabric off. He laughed. "Andrew. It says Andrew." His fingers pressed lightly to the skin there, tracing the letters across the burn. 

  
Jack grabbed his hand, smiling. "It does. That's your name."

  
"And yours is Francis." Crutchie laughed. "That's a horrible name. My ma used to laugh about it with me. She said she felt bad for that boy."

  
Jack squeezed Crutchie's hand. "My mom loved your name."

  
Crutchie grabbed Jack's other hand. "We're idiots aren't we?"

  
Jack laughed, leaning closer. "Just a little bit."

  
Crutchie closed the distance between him, kissing him again. Everything was better now. Jack felt the kiss like electricity down his spine. He held tighter Crutchie, their wrists pressed together. 

  
Crutchie was his and he was Crutchie's. 

  
Jack didn't put the fabric back over his tattoo.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe Jack's name is actually Francis Sullivan? I can't. 
> 
> I wrote this on a 16 hour car ride do feel free to correct any mistakes. This style? An ending? Don't know her.


End file.
